Friday, December 5, 2014


How it feels to kill a man in battle.

This is an interesting statement by a Civil War soldier, on how it feels to kill a man in battle.

Miners Journal February 1892:

A conscientious soldiers description of the horrors of battle.

They do not call it murder when men meet to slaughter each other in battle. They simply report so many dead, wounded and missing. When you fire into the smoke concealing you other battle lines, you fire in the hopes to kill or wound. It is your duty. Battles cannot be one without killing, and the result of battles changes the whole system of governments. You load and fire load and fire moved to the right or left advance or retreat and when the battle is over you may have fired 50 rounds, and yet you have not had a near site of the enemy. You have simply fired at him, and you cannot vouch that a single one of your bullets has found a living target.


Here is a brigade of us in battle line across an old meadow: our right and left joining other brigades. We have thrown down the rail fences gathered logs and brush and sod and erected a breastwork. It is only a slight one, but enough to do shelter bias while lying down. A division of the enemy breaks over cover half a mile away and comes marching down upon us. The field pieces behind us open on their solid columns but they are not checked. Under the smoke we can see the work of the shells but they cannot halt  that mass of men. The grape and canister does awful execution, but there should be a dozen guns behind us instead of six.


They are going to charges. The guns cannot prevent that. Orders run along the line and we are waiting until every bullet, no matter if fired a soldier with his eyes shut, must hit a foe. I select my man while he is yet beyond range. I have eyes for no other. He is a tall, soldierly fellow wearing the stripes of a Sgt. And he comes nearer I imagine that he is looking as fixedly at me as I am at him. I admire his coolness, he looks neither to the right nor to the left. The man on his right is hit and goes down, but he does not falter.


I am going to kill that man! I have a rest for my gun on the breastwork, and when the order comes to fire I cannot miss him. He is living his last-minute on earth! We are calmly waiting until our folly shall prove a veritable flame of death. Now they close up the gaps and we can hear the shouts of their officers as they make ready to charge. My man is still opposite me. He still seems to be looking at me and no one else. I know the word is coming in a few seconds more, and  I aim at his chest.


I could almost be sure of hitting him with a stone when we get the word fire. There is a billow of flame, a billow of smoke, and a fierce crash, and 4000 bullets are fired into that compact mass of advancing men. Not one volley alone, though that worked horrible destruction, but another and another until there was no longer a living man to fire at.


The smoke drifts slowly away, men cheer and yell, we can see the meadow before us heaped with dead and dying men. We advance our line. As we’re going forward I look for my victim. He is lying on his back, eyes half shut and fingers clutching at the grass. He gasps draws up his legs and straightens them out again and again and is dead as I pass them on. I have killed my man!


My bullet alone struck him, tearing that ghastly wound in his breast, and I am entitled to all the honor. Do I swing my And cheer? Do I point him out and expect to be congratulated? No! I have no cheers. I feel no elation. I feel that I murdered him, war or no war, and that his agonized face will haunt me through all the years of my life.




Saturday, October 25, 2014


Thanksgiving Day In The Faraway Orient.

 THE CREW 1901

Paul Weston, who was aboard you. S. S. Helena, which is doing service in the Chinese warriors, in a letter to his father describes a Thanksgiving day celebration in the Orient according to Occidental customs, however notwithstanding, the great American bird and its side dishes were not  included  in the menu.

U S. S. Helena, Cheefoo, china. November 28, 1901.

Dear father: today is Thanksgiving day and, of course the jacks had their usuals read but this thread could have been a great deal better had the ship not rolled. This was to be the bill of fare: salt horse spuds, peas, beans, fresh bread fruit pies and crust.  But this was the fare, salt horse, spuds, peas, beans and fresh bread.On account of the quarantine we could not get chickens or fruit. We were on the Lee of the rock on which the ninth house stands this was just outside the harbor. Last night while the cooks made cakes and pies we were to have custard. It was the kind where you bake the crust first and then pour in the goo on top, white of egg czar smeared like froth, the cakes were smeared with molasses and place nicely on top of the lockers, and the pie crusts were on top of t lockers in the pie crusts were on top of the chest

this morning about 7 o’clock, we got under way and move farther into the harbor. The cooks had the eggs in the corn starch already to mix just as we came up abeam  of the Chinese battleship, we gave a Dozen lists which capsized everything the cakes were smashed and rolled around the deck and were spoiled the pie crusts were also smashed and soaked with saltwater all the eggs on the ship were broken in the packages of cornstarch were busted. Open and spilled about the deck You can imagine how we rolled when the Chinese flagship and French battleship saw us they lowered their lifeboats and were coming to us to save a few of us they could. They thought she was going to capsized, is a great part of the bottom and one propeller were clean out of the water. She’s a fine ship at sea I often wonder if the well since I’m in the Navy I’m compelled to call him a gentleman but I think to myself he’s a well I’m not allowed to think either, that sent a certain ship, name the Helena built for no other purpose than to go up rivers, to sea , ever went to see him her if he hasn’t, I hope you’ll go to see in this pork barrel. A man’s life is in danger even in port this wagon, Sc ow kettles, mess chests coffee pots and horse barrels are always flying about.

This afternoon the Dr. and Ensign came up forward among the jacks and started a phonograph. We all listen and were very much pleased I tell you there’s only a few officers in this Navy who would think of doing anything like that.

6:30 p.m. just finished a chicken. The  wardroom officers had  some chow brought off shore and some of us decided to have some two I bought two chickens and some firemen bought a few ducks. They put there’s in the fire but I beat them I roasted mine in a sterilizer and this evening another fellow and myself had a chicken and waffles suffer minus the waffles. We had: salt horse for desert and some chocolate.

October 30, the boys had a ball last night I was there but didn’t dance I don’t care for dancing, some people can dance all evening. It might be great fun but I’d much rather capsize a part of paint down the Chinamans kneck. I used to dance on the Kentucky to look down from the superstructure on the crowd of dancers reminds a fellow of two men trying to hop away from each other but both holding fast. When you can’t hear the music and see them, they appear like so many jumping jacks.

The New Orleans is expected tomorrow. We will not leave until she arrives from here we go to a few forgotten parts of China and then home, (December 9 year we are home again will have liberty tomorrow. Your loving son Paul USS Helena Shang

By the way, it was in Washington paper that the Helena and the Wilmington were ordered to San Francisco. The captain knows nothing about either of them going. I hope she does go a leader go with her were be transferred, and I prefer the latter event to go home in this.

Don’t like the ship for some reason or other and I haven’t felt at home for comparable since I came aboard

December 1, this morning it’s no. There was half a gale of wind blowing and it sent the snow passed in a blinding storm. Was not very cold, not half so cold as it has been we moved out to the Lee of the lighthouse again morning. This is the first snow I’ve seen since  February 1900. It made me feel good and I went on deck and listened to the howling of the wind and watched the driving snow. I felt as though I’d like to the back home, sitting on the mountain side near Ashland, alongside of a big wood fire, watching a snowstorm. A snowstorm in the mountains, I think the prettiest thing I ever saw.

Well, can’t live in the mountains all your life, I’m satisfied to follow the scene is a great old life very hard sometimes, and very easy at others on the whole I like a great deal better than lying around the one place on land for five years.

December 3, and English merchant steamer was a fire this morning and we sent a few quotes loaded with jacks to help save them.

December 7, you have heard of salty sailors no doubt the ship beats them all, our tea and coffee the past few days and all the cooking has been done with saltwater

December 8 today we had fresh water for cooking again. The other was some shore water from chief food. Two men are sick with college some cause or other probably from the water. We are bound direct for Shanghai.


December 9, here we are home again will have liberty tomorrow.

Your loving son Paul

Friday, August 15, 2014

Pictured above are four Pennsylvanians.  Members of a 4th Marine division Tank Battalion on Iwo Jima, Two of them are Schuylkill County Boys.

As you can see the Sherman Tank is named “ASHLAND”. The tank crew consists of:  Upper left too right, Marine CPRL, Joe Vegso, Phoenixville, Joe Czach, Chester; Lower left and right, Marine Cpl. John Hozella, Pottsville RD2, Jonestown, and Marine Sgt.  And Tank Commander William J. Kellagher, Ashland, Pa.. The tank is named after Kellagher’s home town. Ashland.

Hozell is known to many as “Monk” he has been in the Marines for several years. Sgt.  Kellagher was a former Ashland H.S. and Fordham University football athlete. He has been in action in a number of battles  in the pacific area.


Sunday, March 23, 2014

Miners Journal, Pottsville, Pennsylvania June 1863.

The Dying Soldier


A soldier’s life is not all made up monotonous military duty, and fatigue work, and shrewd pranks. There are frequent occasions where the better are roused, the greatest and most abandoned show that the lessons of you in their hearts, and have not been faced by years of neglect, and carelessness and perhaps the dissipation. A short time since I visited a camp searching for the officer I was in quest of, past the hospital of the Regiment and my attention was attracted by a group of solemn looking soldiers near by and the sound of low voices within. The chaplain beckoned to me and I entered. Stretched on a couch was a dying man, his eyes lit up with the unnatural brilliancy which in cases like his indicate the approach of death: he breathed in low gasps one arm was by his side, skinny fingers extended, but too weak to hold a letter, perhaps from his mother, which lay behind in the other hand in the class of a beloved comrade knelt by his side’s bronzed cheeks occasionally moisten right tears which he could not repress.


Another fellow soldier rough in appearance, But tender as a girl in his attention to his dying friend, occasionally moisten the lips of the sufferer. The Sgt. had just made his final visit, seeing the futility of any further attempts to stay the hand of death in his last directions, and gone out tearless perhaps, but with sympathy in his face. The chaplain sat in a chair where the dying one could look in his face the prostrate soldier, after a severe effort, gave the attendance to understand that he wished his head to be raised this was done, and a spoonful of stimulant administered he then, much difficulty, whispered a few broken words to those about him . “John” said he, “you’ve been very kind the good don’t get wild, always keep, the ring right to mother and Clara, don’t forget what I told you, God bless you.” Then he seemed utterly exhausted, but rallied again, after another notion were to have been administered and addressed his other comrade, “you’ve been good to me wish I had something better to give you the good. Many must die perhaps soon.” And then, after resting for a moment, he motioned to the men who were clustered about the door, they un covered their heads,the canvas front of the tent was pulled aside, he made an effort to wave his hand and failing in this, whispered audibly for their perfect silence “God bless you all good by buy:” and they went away sadly some of them actually sobbing then the dying man address the chaplain. “Thank you thank you no fear of death better to be shot God knows best another and Clara and hear the dying man’s voice failed he did not speak again, but a heavenly smile radiated his countenance and did not leave it the gasps grew longer the intervals greater.


The chaplain, with a husky voice and tearful eyes spreading his hands over the bed, said, “Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord,” and raising his eyes to heaven praise God receive this soul when it leaves this earthly clay, and may this lesson not be lost on us who are left in this world of sin and temptation.” When he had ended his prayer, the soldiers eyes and had lost its luster. The breast had ceased its motion, the gasping had stopped the still smiling countenance was fixed in death, and the soul of the poor suffer had flown to heaven. “I love the camp and the soldiers, said the chaplain: “ they are not so bad at heart as we think them, but I never expected to find such a saint, so i imbued with holiness, on a private soldiers sick couch. I feel as God had sent us this  message from himself; and let us not, my friends, forget it in other scenes, but try and profit by it.


And so we left that bed of death, all influenced by an impression which will not soon be effaced. I never witnessed so solemn and affecting scene as at that. Which I have so poorly described. For it is impossible to give an adequate idea of the occasion in any language of mine. Not in the din of battle, and the rushing and scrambling and tumult of war and a fight, went out this soldiers light of life. He did not die as he would have chosen, for he was brave as the bravest, full of patriotic ardor, once in the most lively and he would have died on the battlefield as brave soldiers wish to die but with saintly resignation, he did not murmur when he found it was wiled thay he should waste away with disease.